


The Void

by saphique



Category: Clouds of Sils Maria (2014)
Genre: Clouds of sils maria - Freeform, F/F, Maria Enders, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Valentine - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 13:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4566729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saphique/pseuds/saphique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maria and Valentine have been rehearsing the play for almost a week. Valentine wants a night off. Maria agrees and is forced to spend the night alone, only to discover where that immense void comes from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Void

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions of sexual desire, of masturbation and also describes a panic attack.  
> Also, English is not my native language.

Valentine wanted the night off. She preferred to make a 2 hour-long road trip in order to spend time with a new acquaintance instead of staying over tonight, with me, here. I agreed, of course, why not? She is off-duty, isn’t she? 

And then she left. The heavy wooden door closes behind the drift of her messy hair. Silence fills the country house, I barely notice all the murmured and diversified sounds nature is offering in this calmed nightfall through the opened windows. Despite the serenity, panic hits me, knowing that loneliness is near. Rapidly, I escalade the stairs up to the second floor, hoping to catch a glance of her silhouette entering the car. Too late, as my eyes study the land from the balcony of my room, Valentine is already driving the car into the darkness of the dense forest. Oh, how much I ache the separation, the knowledge of distance. Even though the car is no longer visible, I keep focusing on the road where the car disappeared behind mountains, as if I was trying to retrace the path. I am immobile, cold, and aching. I am old, alone and insecure. It seems to be impossible for me to arrange my thoughts, as I only feel uncomfortable in my entire being. Warm wind caress my face, which helps me gain mobility. My hands are unable to stop quivering. As I look down to observe them, I notice the blue veins and wrinkles and grimace in repulsion. I immediately put them into the pockets of my jeans and step back into the room. I close the door, and as dreaded, emptiness welcomes me. Or should I say the lack of Valentine hits me? 

I sit down on the chair in front of the desk, unable to make any decision. What is happening to me? Unsteadiness, trembling, sweating, anxious… Have I been so dependent of Valentine’s constant presence and reliability to the point where I cannot function as soon as I am alone? Have I been so needing of Valentine’s cigarette-breath and self-assurance? Have I been so infatuated to the point where my entire body is only relaxed as long as she is around me? 

Focus, focus Maria! There is an entire evening and night offered to me. I should be productive. I could take a bath, or I could google Jo-Ann, or I could rehearse some lines. The play. Helena. I turn my head towards the nightstand where lies the pamphlet. I do not wish to get up to pick it up. Heck, I don’t even know if I have the strength to move. I grab a notebook and simply doodle Maloja Snake. I unevenly underline it, with a trembling pencil. 

I fucking hate this play. That play is driving me insane! How can I relate, how can I even manage to express myself under the skin of such a vulnerable woman… Where do I start, where do I draw my inspiration from? 

God, where is Valentine? As I get up to fetch her somewhere in the country-house, I remember. She is not here, and I knew it. Why so many reflexes, why taking for granted that she will be close-by? Why do I need her to be so available? Why do I expect that she will have all the answers, even for the most intimate inquiries? 

Although, lately, I’ve been pushing back her ideas, I’ve been doubting her advice, I’ve ridiculed her opinions. I didn’t meant to. I was only being honest. Isn’t that what friends do, being transparent? Around her, in her presence, I feel so…free. By her side, I allow myself to say out loud what goes through my head, and when I am drunk, it is easier. I didn’t meant to be disrespectful. It’s because of her assertiveness, she looks so confident and comfortable…how can she not inspire me to become like her? But I didn’t meant to be disrespectful, just honest… Damn, I am such a pigheaded! Is it so hard to keep remarks to myself around her, especially when I suspect the remarks I make could possibly hurt her feelings? 

Is this why she left tonight? Is this why she wishes to have separate time from me? Because I have scared her way? Even off-duty, she used to hang around for much longer, back in Paris or in America… She always ended up preferring my company at the end of the day. 

Frustrated, I cannot stand still. I suddenly get up, as if to chase my thoughts away. After all, this is just for one evening, for Christ’s sake! She left just for one evening! Why am I in such a state?! I walk, big steps, but I end up turning in circle on the carpet as I still do not know what to do. Both of my hands are covering my mouth, as I seem to be choking. I am holding back tears. What is happening, what is wrong with me?! I am becoming delusional. 

I seem to be losing my mind. This is turning into a panic attack as I am having troubles getting enough air. My eyes hurt, as if my tears were made of sand. Time passes, and as the sun is fading away, I see that I have forgotten to light up and the room is almost dark. I hurry to the nightstand and I turn the light on. The room is instantly illuminated, such as the infamous pamphlet from the play that lies there. I cannot even stand looking at the cover anymore. The mixture of color is making me dizzy and nervous. It hits me again. The play. The rehearsal. The desire. Valentine… Valentine reading lines about desire, Helena’s desire, desire towards youth and soft skin. 

From all the mixed feelings that I have towards the play, the sense of emptiness and vulnerability are the dangerous ones. I hold my hand upwards, as if I tried to fetch the pamphlet but deliberately avoiding to pick it up. As if it would be too painful to grab the book and then touch everything it stands for. I freeze, and my tears are falling down on the floor and on my raised hand. 

I am unstable. I feel destroyed. There is a void, I keep feeling it. Sometimes, it is less unbearable. Surely, around Valentine, that void is still there, huge and hurting, but at least I’m distracted. When Valentine is there, the void does not disappear, its transforms into something else. I seem to realize that as soon as she is nowhere near, the void is growing and taunting my vulnerability. 

Yes, yes I am jealous! Out of all the honest talking we’ve been having, I couldn’t bring myself to admit it, neither to her or even to myself. I am so deeply afraid. Since we’ve been here, since I’ve become Helena, I can physically and subconsciously see Valentine distance herself from me, one step at a time, one sentence at a time. My difficulties with the characters of the play are totally obscuring my interactions with Valentine. My insecurities and jealousy are not an attractive quality, as Valentine once pointed out. I am not interesting, as I pity myself nonstop that I wish to be Sigrid again. I am no longer Sigrid, that period is over. Nowadays, I am in front of an actual Sigrid, confronted by her influences and it rips every part of my being. I’m obsessed with Valentine, infatuated by her presence, by the promises of her age and by that self-assured look.  
Fuck! The voids expands, pushes, and deepens. I almost feel sick. I need to grab my shirt, to take the fabric between my fingers, expecting it to be my skin that could be ripped out of me. My lungs need to scream, my face needs to tense from the pain. The void, the void. Again, I find myself walking in circle, unable to act like a human being, trying desperately to figure out the cause of that agonizing void. I think, I imagine, I speculate. Face inside the palms of my hands, my back slightly curled forwards as I concentrate. I hum from frustration. In my head, I rapidly re-enact the play, as Helena, as Sigrid. In my thoughts, I re-enact Valentine and I’s evening in the country-house, by the fire, drinking and smoking. And there is it, the realization of it all. Valentine lying on the sofa, unperturbed and composed, re-positioning her glasses over her head, untying her messy hair. Tempting, inviting, unsolicited. 

Frustration. My eyes open fully, tears sliding, as I release my face from the palm of my hands. My breathing is rapid and uncoordinated. I loudly sigh from disbelief, so close from laughing out loud yet so close to collapsing from shame. The void is of frustration nature, I am sexually frustrated. This is why the void is never fading when Valentine is around, it is only appeased, tolerated, yet never fulfilled. It is the illusion of the promise of filling the void that makes it less distressing when Valentine is with me. And tonight, while Valentine is more than 2 hours way from me, the void is draining my whole being. 

I wipe remaining tears with my wrist as I try to steady my respiration. Comprehension usually soothes pain but now it seems to make things worse. I feel filthy and incomplete and worthless. I feel even more pathetic when I let myself fall on the bed and expand my legs near the end. I’m choking on sobs and on hick-ups while I hurriedly slide a hand beneath my pants, over my underwear and begin to frantically rub myself. It hurts, as I am not wet or stimulated. That’s why I need to rub over my clitoris with the texture of my panties under my fingers. I feel rage and sadness. I push and rub and slide my fingers as frenziedly and ungracefully as I can. Eyes closed, I try to recapture Valentine’s essence. I can feel my lips shuddering spontaneously from the sincere emotions of joy at imagining Valentine’s smile, of longing from picturing Valentine’s hips. Pure want exploses in my body that electrifies the core of by being. I wish I was filled of Valentine, of her lips, of her ideas, of her touch, of her assurance. Eyes still close, there is a beginning of a smile that draws on my lips, as I let loud moans escape. My wrist is becoming numb from the pressure of the border of my pants, but then again I am too lazy and focused on my approaching orgasm. I want to fill the void, I want the void to disappear, as if it never existed. Valentine keeps appearing and disappearing from my thoughts. Even here, in my head, she wishes to run away. Fuck! Rage and sadness are coming back, dominating all positive energies. I grunt from disapproval, and immediately stop the rubbing. I open my eyes. The ceiling is low and dusty. Because of the source of light being on the nightstand, it reflects the shadow of my silhouette on the juncture of the ceiling and the wall. I can see my short hair, my profile, the curve of my breasts, and the bump of my hand beneath my pants. It frightens me. It keeps me from continuing. It only screams my loneliness. Nonetheless, the void is still poignant, so I retract my hand and turn over, flat on my stomach and begin rubbing on the softness of the mattress. But the angle is not right, there is not enough pressure. The pillows are absorbing my sobs and tears, and grunts of frustration as I fully dive my head in them. Still, I continue the rhythm, humping the sheets. Everything seems so blank, so empty, so pathetic. 

No, no, no, no! This is not enough! This is not what I need! This is not working! Fuck! FUCK! Wanting. It’s not just about needing. I WANT. I want Valentine, to smell her sex, to lick her lips, to stroke her breasts, to bite her neck, to pull her hair just the right way. I want her to lay down on me, to rub herself to pleasure on my thighs. I want her to cover my mouth with her hand while she fucks me ceaseless with her fingers. I WANT, WANT, WANT! Under the pressure of the struggle and from exhaustion, I collapse, without being able to reach orgasm. My dreams are empty, lacking of Valentine. 

Chirping of birds are dancing around my ears. It’s morning. Waking up, I realize that I’ve fallen asleep with the light still on, half-dressed. The door of my room is half-opened. Was it left un-closed last night? Dizzy, with sore legs and puffy eyes from crying, I manage to recover enough strength to stand on my feet. I honestly try not to feel sorry for myself, but that is impossible. I despise my behaviour. 

Walking down the stairs as quietly as possible, I wish to know if Valentine already came back. I gently push the door of her room, only to find her lying down, sleeping, also half-dressed, mesmerizing.

I have to be careful. Helena commits suicide over these questionings, over Sigrid’s incredible beauty. I am not Helena, I am no longer Sigrid. I could be a new type of Sigrid that is now longing for a younger woman. I need to figure out who is who, to differentiate my feelings from theirs, and to fully determine where are these feelings coming from. At least, I figured the origin of the void that was preventing me from focusing. Today is a new day and Valentine is back.


End file.
